"Years after years have past away,

Less light and gladsome! Why
Do those we most implore to stay,
Run ever swiftest by ?"

Not signed, but in the hand-writing of W. S. Landor.

The reply of an octogenarian (the elder D'Israeli) to a beautiful lady, who wrote him some verses on his birth-day, May 11, 1845.

"A wreath from a muse, a flower from a grace,

Are visions of fancy which memory can trace.
Though sightless, and braving my dungeon around me,
How is it vain phantoms of glory surround me?
The enchantress with flattery's thrice-potent rhime
Reopens the hours which I loved in my prime;
From my eightieth dull year to my fortieth I rise,
And cherish the shadows her genius supplies."

Addressed to Lady Blessington at Genoa by Lord Byron :"You have asked for a verse, the request

In a rhyme it were strange to deny ;
But my Hippocrene was but my breast,
And my feelings (its fountain) are dry.
"Were I now as I was-I had sung

What Lawrence has pencilled so well;
But the strain would expire on my tongue,
And the theme is too soft for my skill.

"I am ashes where once I was fire,

And the Bard in my bosom is dead;
What I loved I now merely admire,
And my heart is as grey as my head.

"My life is not dated by years,

There are moments which act as a plough,

And there is not a furrow appears,

But is deep in my heart as my brow.

"Let the young and the brilliant aspire

To sing, while I gaze on in vain ;
For sorrow has torn from my lyre
The string which was worthy the strain."

Answer by Lady Blessington.

"When I asked for a verse, pray believe
'Twas not vanity urged the desire ;
For no more can my mirror deceive,
No more can I poets inspire.

"Time has touched with rude fingers my brow,
And the roses have fled from my cheek;
And it surely were folly, if now

I the praise due to beauty should seek.

"And as pilgrims who visit the shrine

Of some saint, bear a relic away;
I sought a memorial of thine,

As a treasure, when distant I stray.
"Oh! say not that lyre is unstrung,

Whose chords can such rapture bestow,
Or that mute is that magical tongue
From which music and poetry flow.
"And though sorrow, ere youth yet has fled,
May have altered thy locks' jetty hue;
The rays that encircle thy head,

Hide the ravaging marks from our view."

Lines of Lord Erskine, for an inscription for a collar of a

lap-dog of the Countess of Blessington:

"Whoever finds and don't forsake me,
Shall have nought in way of gains;
But let him to my mistress take me,

And he shall see her for his pains."

Note accompanying lines to Lady Blessington, by Thomas Moore:

-:

"MY DEAR LADY BLESSINGTON,

"When persons like you condescend so to ask, how are poor poets to refuse? At the same time, I confess I have a horror of Albumizing, Annualizing, and Periodicalizing, which my one inglorious surrender (and for base money too) to that Triton of literature, Marryat, has but the more confirmed me in. At present, what with the weather and my history, I am chilled into a man of mere prose. But as July approaches, who knows but I may throw into song, and though-as O'Connell has a Vow registered in heaven against pistols, so I have against periodicals; yet there are few, I must say, who could be more likely to make a man break this (or any vow) than yourself, if you thought it worth your while.

"And so with this gallant speech, which from a friend of a quarter of a century's date is not, I flatter myself, to be despised, I am, my dear Lady Blessington, "Most truly yours,

To the Countess of Blessington :

"THOMAS MOORE."

"What shall I sing thee? shall I tell
Of that bright hour, remembered well
As though it shone but yesterday-
When, as I loitered in the ray
Of the warm sun, I heard o'erhead
My name, as by some spirit, said,
And looking up, saw two bright eyes
Above me from a casement shine-

Dazzling the heart with such surprise
As they, who sail beyond the Line,
Feel, when new stars above them rise!
And it was thine- the voice that spoke,
Like Ariel's, in the blue air then;
And thine the eyes, whose lustre broke,
Never to be forgot again!

Verses for an album, written at the request of the Countess of Blessington, by George Colman.

"August 1, 1819.

1.

"How have I sworn-and sworn so deep,
No more to put my friends to sleep,
By writing crambo for 'em!
Rhymes my amusement once I made,
When Youth and Folly gave me aid,
But since they have become my trade,
I must, of course, abhor 'em.

2.

"Entirely generous Mr. Thrale,

Who sold brown stout, and haply ale,
Was always fond of giving,

Of whom Sam Johnson said one day,
Thrale would give any thing away,
Rather than porter, I dare say,
By which he makes his living.'

3.

"Yet the allusion holds not here

Mine is but Poetry's small beer,

"I believe it was to a piper; but it sounds more poetical to say, to our own singing."-T. M.

And every line will shew it:
Thrale brewed more potent stuff I ween,
From Thames, than I from Hippocrene-
So there's no parallel between

The Brewer and the Poet.

4.

"Still, why again be scribbling? List! There is a Pair I can't resist,

'Tis now no drudging duty,
The Blessingtons demand my strain,
And who records against the grain,
His sparkling converse and champagne,
And her more sparkling beauty?

5.

"But hold! I fear my prudence sleeps-
Her Ladyship an Album keeps,

Whose leaves, though I ne'er spied 'em,
Are graced with verse from wits profest,
Bards by Apollo highly blest;
No doubt they've done their very best,
How shall I look beside 'em?

6.

"Dare I, in lame and silly pride,
Hobble where Rogers loves to glide?
Whose sweetly simple measures
Make enviers of Genius mad,
Delight the moral, soothe the sad,
Give Human life a zest, and add
To Memory's greatest Pleasures.

7.

"Or, if I venture, cheek by jowl, With the Anacreontic soul,

That master, to a tittle,

Of elegant erotic lore,

Then they, who my weak page explore,
Will reckon me much less than More,

Not half so Great as Little.